Profile #12: "The Enforcer" Arn Anderson

Some guys are just born 40 years old. If you've ever played pickup basketball or belonged to a gym, you know what I'm talking about. There's a guy who is balding, barrel-chested, and kinda hairy. He's got "old man strength" and can bench press way more than you'd think. On the court, he's the hack-box, the guy who roughs up anyone who drives the lane--the guy who who boxes out, has a tricky drop-step, etc. He never seems to get older, and you're pretty sure you can never picture him any younger than about 40 years old. As if he just fell out of the womb fully grown and already balding.

This is Arn Anderson. Also known as "The Enforcer," or "Double A." Like many NWA grapplers of the early to mid-'80s, he sported the full carpet of stomach hair that weaves its way indiscernibly up to his chest and slightly onto his shoulders. He had old man strength. His fundamentals were unparalleled. The guy did everything right, from armlocks to front-facelocks, to deep arm drags, to sunset flips, etc. His repertoire and determination were simply unmatched. And let's not forget his finisher, the spinebuster. An all-time great, criminally underrated coup de grace maneuver.

What really set Double A apart from his contemporaries was that, unlike most, I'm pretty sure Arn actually believed what he was doing was real. He lived his persona. He was, essentially, the personal bodyguard to Ric Flair [See Profile #1], and did all the dirty work for The Four Horsemen. He was there to break Dusty Rhodes' hand with a baseball bat while Big Dust was tied to a truck in Jim Crockett Promotions' parking lot. He was there to smash Ricky (or as Arn called him "Punky") Morton's nose on the concrete arena floor. And yes, he was there to stab Sid Vicious 40 times with a pair of scissors during a late-night drunken hotel brawl. In short, Double A was a bad motherfucker. For real. So it's easy to understand that he clearly couldn't separate ring-work from "real life." I mean, we're talking about a guy whose autobiography is written in "kayfabe," which is a wrestling industry term meaning "in character." Read that again: Arn wrote a book about his life in professional wrestling....as if the matches were 100% real. Fantastic.

Originally, Arn teamed with his on-screen "brother" Ole Anderson, and they formed one of the most menacing, brutal tag-teams in professional wrestling: The Minnesota Wrecking Crew. Their specialty comprised working on a single part of an opponent's body (usually an arm/shoulder) and systematically breaking that body part down during the course of a match until the opponent capitulated from the pain. Of course, today's wrestling fans are far too impatient to watch a sustained, methodical work.

Unfortunately, a compressed vertebrae that required surgery prematurely ended Double A's in-ring career. He left the sport as an ambassador of sorts for truly being a blue collar wrestler, in a sport made up almost entirely of those who fancy themselves blue collar. Arn was the real deal, though---a selfless, articulate guy who remains one of the more respected figures in an industry laden with duplicitous cheats.




Where is he now? Working for that pimp Vinc McMahon in a backstage/office capacity.

Profile #777: The Midnight Express

[Note: I'm intentionally ignoring the myriad previous and future incarnations of this team, as clearly this was the finest version ever to lace up a set of boots and pull on the, uh, salmon (pink?) trunks.]

"Beautiful" Bobby Eaton and "Sweet" Stan lane. Otherwise known as The Midnight Express. (Not to be confused with any other "Express" tag-team names that saturated the wrestling scene in the mid-'80s.) Perhaps the finest technical tag-team ever assembled. No two combatants were able to invent and execute as many devastating maneuvers from such a complex variety of angles in the history of the sport. On any given night, they might employ from their vast repertoire any of the following moves: the Double Goosel, the Flapjack, or--if they were feeling particularly spunky--the Veg-o-Matic. Led to the ring (and in most interviews) by the inimitable, and loquacious, Jim Cornette [See Profile #911], the Midnights were far ahead of their time in more than one way.

If you peruse the contemporary professional wrestling landscape, you'll note that many (if not all) of the tag-teams out there are composed of two individual wrestlers, slapped together in a hackneyed way, and they don't even bother to come up with a team name, nevermind wrestle as a unit for more than 6 months at a clip. The Midnights formed and prospered during the halcyon days of tag-team wrestling. And they were, undoubtably, at their professional zenith in the mid- to late-1980s.

And....they were flat-out fucking cool. From their pink tights to their innovative seamless transitions in the ring, all the way down to one of the more awesome (and criminally underrated) intro songs in wrestling. Dig it:

Bad-fucking-ass, right? Now, I was only like 12 years old when I first heard this, but I can assure you I knew, almost instinctively, that I was going to get stoned to it many, many times into my adulthood.

Cornette, their fearless (read: fearful) leader always had some gems to bust out, mostly because Eaton was a deaf mute and Lane was coked to the gills. [As an aside: Sweet Stan always seemed like he should've been working at a marina somewhere in a small town in Florida. Probably ripping off tourists by overcharging them for fishing expeditions on his crappy boat, and hitting on the soccer moms aboard. Also, my Dad once mentioned that my Mom would "drop her pants right now for Stan (if he were in the room)." Creepy, unsolicited, and yet still buried in my not-so-subconscious. Thanks, Dad.]

Anyway, it was always good to hear Cornette come up with nicknames. Who else would call a mulleted inbred like Bobby Eaton--from Huntsville, Alabama---the "Sultan of Swing"? Not to be outdone by deeming Stan Lane, "The Gangster of Love." Sheer, unfettered genius.

Perhaps they were the last of the great tag-teams, The Midnight Express never really ventured outside of the Jim Crockett Promotions Mid-Atlantic territory. And really, they didn't have to. They were the best of the best and everyone already knew it.

Where are they now? Both Eaton and Lane, though officially retired, continue to make guest/special ringside appearances at various regional cards and for special occasions. I'm sure Eaton still rocks the mullet unironically, and I'm sure "Sweet" Stan is probably banging a crispy-haired personal trainer chick somewhere in the bowels of the Floridian peninsula.

Profile #2: "The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes

The American Dream. The son of a plumber. The white man's afro. The purple belly splotch. The urban-Southern patois. The shuck. The jive. The lisp. The bionic elbow.

Needless to say, Dusty Rhodes was the chief inspiration for the birth of this blog. When I was a kid, I found an old kneepad, slipped it onto my elbow, and went around pretending to drop the "bionic elbow" on random kids in the neighborhood. I wanted to be Dusty. It didn't matter that he had the physique of a flesh-colored Grimace. It didn't matter that he couldn't pronounce the letter "s." Dusty was my idol.

It's pathetic, but I remember sitting in my basement with my Dad. Huge, HUGE Saturday night. It was Dusty versus his hated rival, Tully Blanchard [see Profile #321] , of the dreaded Four Horsemen. It was a match for the television title, but with a twist: each participant was to put up $50,000 worth of his own money, with the winner collecting the championship belt and the bounty. Of course, Dusty rolls up with his $50,000 in cash in a brown paper sack. He declared it "The people'th money, daddy!" Tully strides to the ring with his manager and chief financial advisor of Tully Blanchard Enterprises, Inc., J.J. Dillon [see Profile #881]. Dillon is carrying a steel briefcase filled with their money. My Dad had ordered some Jerry's Subs (which he would later boycott for many decades) and french fries and soda. We were huddled together in the basement, father and son, rooting against each other's respected combatants. I couldn't understand how he'd root for Tully back then. Still really don't understand it entirely to this day.

The particulars of the battle aren't important, only that Tully and J.J. cheated to defeat Rhodes. My Dad gloated. I cried, and stormed out of the basement. Rooting for Dusty Rhodes was like that; predicated almost entirely on pathos, irrespective of victory or defeat. You rooted for him because he had guts and he never backed down.

Of course, he played the blue-collar face perfectly, and even managed to infuse some "street" vernacular into each promo. On the stick, he's probably in my top five, all-time. Nobody could talk shit like Big Dust in an interview. He'd come out in terrifyingly tight blue jeans, a flannel, maybe a faux-silk Skoal jacket, and a trucker hat (no irony), and just lay it down. He'd bust out lines like "I'll rip yo' neck off and dance on ya tonsils!" And I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

Despite being overweight, Dusty was a pretty good worker and had a natural instinct on how to gauge and play to the crowd. He took the traditional "face in peril" role to the extreme, and he bled buckets nearly every night for added effect. It'd be pointless to attempt a linear progression of his career, as it's far too storied and comprehensive to summarize here, but let's just say that he fought and beat everyone and anyone in the wrestling industry at one point or another. He held every major title there is to hold, and he fought in every major organization there was to fight in. I won't explore his booking capacity here; I'm strictly talking about Dusty, the wrestler.

Perhaps the thing Dusty was most famous for, unfortunately, was taking a beating. God, could he take a beating. It was his signature. And back in the day, before the curtain was pulled back on professional wrestling and we had the cavalcade of inane vignettes and back-stage videos, Dusty engineered what was at that time a revolutionary concept: getting jumped not just outside the ring, but outside the arena. In "real" life. Unheard of. And thus a moment was born that, I still contend, is the greatest single moment in wrestling history to-date. Yes: Dusty Rhodes getting jumped in a parking lot in Charlotte, NC, by the Four Horsemen. Behold:

Please note that right before Dusty gets smashed with the Louisville Slugger, he says "Make it good!" Ya know why? 'Cause Big Dust goes hard, that's why. Just look at his forehead---a crossroads of scars and slashes that Jim Cornette observed "resemble a Sudanese roadmap."

Then, of course, the second-best moment was when Dusty lost a loser-leaves-town match. Suddenly and mysteriously, a new masked wrestler named The Midnight Rider, entered the scene. Nothing like a 300+ lbs. Dusty Rhodes, purple belly splotch and all, squeezed under a black mask, seeking vengeance on his enemies.

As a kid, I always knew Dusty would take a beating and keep on comin'. It was in his DNA to seek justice against all odds. Oddly inspirational. That was the essence of The American Dream.

Where is he now? Retired, divorced, and inducted into the Wrestling Hall of Fame in 2007. I imagine he's eating a jelly doughnut somewhere and enjoying the good life. As he should. All hail The Dream.

Profile #1,912: The New Breed

They hailed from the future---more specifically, from the year 2002. At least, that's what we were told at the time of their NWA debut, in 1986. Sean Royal and Chris Champion were known as The New Breed, and they had traveled back in time to 1986 on a mission to dominate the wrestling universe. [Read: the Carolinas, pockets of Virginia, and parts of Southern Maryland.]

They claimed that, in the future (2002), Dusty Rhodes [See Profile #2] was President of the United States, and that every citizen owned a personal robot. Not unsurprisingly, they frequently made nebulous and repeated references to a "flux capacitor" and bee-bopped their way toward the ring to the tunes of the, uh, futuristic Beastie Boyz' "You Gotta Fight for Your Right [To Party]."

Perhaps not ironically, The New Breed actually did possess the talent, skills, athleticism, and move-sets that not many North American wrestling fans had ever seen before. For all intents and purposes, they were from the future, in a way---bringing high body crosses from inside the ring out onto the concrete floor, utilizing the bear hug-flying clothesline combination that the Hart Foundation [See Profile #1,095] made famous, and employing a dizzying array of flying dropkicks, crucifix pins, and other assorted luche libre flares.

They stormed onto the scene in Jim Crockett's NWA and immediately began feuding with the Rock & Roll Express [See Profile #107], getting the better of the duo in short order before suffering an untimely car accident that kept Royal and Champion out for an extended period of time. Upon their return, Champion sported a cast "from the future!" [read: glued circuits and wires from a computer onto his arm] and the two began a feud with the Midnight Express [See Profile #4,014]. Maybe the only thing better than watching the two youngsters wrestle was watching them bumble through promos that, even at age 10, made me chortle at their collective stupidity:




Ultimately, Royal's knowledge of the future must've steered him away from wrestling, as he decided to embark on a career in construction. Champion disappeared as well, resurfacing years later in the then-WCW as a character named Yoshi Kwan, replete with makeup and slitted eyes. Making him kinda-sorta Asian, and vaguely racist.

Where are they now? Assuming they left 1987 and transported back to 2002 at the time, that places them [approximately] in the year 2016 right now. Where I can only assume they are ardent supporters of President Brutus Beefcake [See Profile #88].

Profile #771: "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert

He who slings mud loses ground,
He who throws fire yields the hot hand.
—Eddie Gilbert


So sayeth the late, great "Hot Stuff" Eddie Gilbert. Pretty acute statement from a guy who spent most of his life doing coke, gobbling amphetamines, and wearing sunglasses straight from the set of Summer School. Gilbert was a second-generation wrestler who came to prominence around 1986 in Bill Watts' UWF. At only 5'9", he was undersized during an era that increasingly geared itself toward bodybuilders and steroid-heads. Nevertheless, "Hot Stuff" had charisma to burn, was great on the mic, and consistently put on entertaining bouts replete with both brawling and understated technical brilliance. He brought in local cooze, Missy Hyatt, as his valet/manager (and married her in real life some time later). Together they formed "Hyatt & Hot Stuff International." They worked well as a unit, playing off each other's real-life partnership.

In a dual role as booker, Gilbert was able to position himself as an invaluable asset to Watts and subsequently, when the UWF was purchased by Jim Crockett's NWA, Gilbert stayed on the active roster and excelled from mid-card status to a brief feud with world champion, Ric Flair.

For me, though, there were three distinct facets of Eddie Gilbert's career that remain burned into my memory:


1. Missy Hyatt's tits

2. Missy Hyatt's tits

3. Throwing fireballs into people's faces [hence, "Hot Stuff"]



Eddie was a heel for most of his career, but he was always pretty funny and mouthy and he earned his stripes in the NWA in the late-'80s and early '90s.

Unfortunately, he was one of those myriad partier wrestlers who indulged in the lethal mix of alcohol and painkillers and in 1995 it caught up with him. He was found dead of a heart attack at just 33 years old.

Where is he now? Slingin' fireballs in heaven, I hope.

Profile #317: Barry Horowitz

To my knowledge, Horowitz was the first [and only?] openly Jewish wrestler in history. Despite his Semitic weakness, Horowitz made it to the "big league" and landed a gig with the WWF in early 1987. Unfortunately, he wallowed in opening matches, where he was summarily pinned in under 5 minutes. This would become his trademark, and he was one of the pioneers of the "lifelong jobber" gimmick.

Horowitz graduated from Florida State with a degree in sports nutrition. Naturally, this led him to pursue a career in an industry where barbituates and pain killers were popped like Pez. Horowitz was a sound wrestler with a penchant for getting caught in hip-tosses and high back-body drops. Despite his collegial background, Barry never seemed able to adapt to his opponents' offense. His own offense consisted mostly of punches and kicks, and the occasional body slam or atomic drop---though his supreme confidence never waivered. A neck injury forced him to sit out nearly 10 months, and when he returned to action Vince McMahon informed him that his services were no longer needed.

Horowitz wrestled in Jim Cornette's fledgling Smokey Mountain Wrestling for a time, offering his services as a jobber to pock-marked Tennessee inbreds like Tracey Smothers [See Profile #4,265], Bobby Blaze [See Profile #9,211], and "White Lightnin'" Tim Horner [See Profile #8,132]. Unfazed, Horowitz soldiered onward and eventually would re-sign with the WWF in the mid-'90s, where he'd become even more demonstrative by sporting a faux-silk vest with a hand-print on the back. Horowitz would come to the ring and, literally, pat himself on the back.

That hand-print back patting maneuver is probably what most people remember about him. But I remember him more for breaking the invisible barrier pro wrestling had against Jews.

Well....that AND the hand-print back patting.

Where is he now? Horowitz is currently a nutritionist, working in Florida.

Profile #222: "Hands of Stone" Ronnie Garvin

Perhaps the best interview in the business, Jimmy Cornette [See Profile #303], articulated it best when he referred to Garvin as "the Barney Rubble of professional wrestling." Part of the problem, I think (read: I'm sure), was that Garvin was a French Canadian pretending to be an Atlanta, Georgia, native, wrestling in Charlotte. He was brought to the NWA under the pretense of being "Georgous" Jimmy Garvin's [See Profile #871] brother, when really he was Garvin's step-father. Though the family-tree-as-straight-line angle may have gone over well in Charlotte in the mid-'80s, President Jim Crockett, Jr. wasn't taking any chances.

He was more popularly (though not in my house with my father around) known as "Hands of Stone" Ronnie Garvin. And, in his later WWF years, known as "Rugged" Ronnie Garvin. Both vague allusions to his [undocumented] amateur boxing background, and one-punch knockout power. He came to the Carolinas, ostensibly, in defense of his "brother" Jimmy (who was feuding with Ric Flair at the time). Ronnie then feuded with Ric Flair and actually defeated Flair for the world title. Normally, a rematch clause stipulates that the new champion must grant a defense to the former champ within 30 days. Garvin received special privilege to go over the 30-day mark before giving Flair a return bout, where he was promptly and soundly thrashed by the Nature Boy. Subsequently, Garvin dropped his title on the very first defense.

Garvin would end up in the WWF and ascend to nothing higher than mid-card status, and was soon relegated to toil in the opening bouts of untelevised house shows. His no frills, punch-kick-stomp-chop style of wrestling didn't serve him well in the WWF. His average physique and size--compared to the 'roid freak WWF wrestlers--also did him no favors with the booking committee.

Looking back, the most entertaining thing about Garvin was his promos. Not because he was so good, rather because he could barely speak the language. He'd invent words, combine words that weren't supposed to be combined, he'd stutter, he'd turn red in the face, etc. It was beautiful; virtuoso performances of unintended comedy abounded.

Behold, this Ronnie Garvin gem [unedited]: “He tried to assassinate me! You saw it! If it would’ve [sic] been for Barry Windham, they was gonna decapitate me! I wouldn’t even be here today, and if I was, I wouldn’t have my head on. Well, I’m gonna tell ya something, Jimmy Corners, Jimmy Cornette, Denis the Menace, whatever you are...”




Where is he now? Garvin owns and runs several used car dealerships in North Carolina. I'd love to listen to him try and sell me a Volvo.